


All the things unsaid

by Randomfandoms389



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Pre-Established Relationship, Rimming, UKUS, canonverse, fuck buddies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23281660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389
Summary: It doesn't mean anything until it does.(Or: How England and America finally stumble their way into a relationship)
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	All the things unsaid

America doesn't really know how their… thing began.

_(Liar,_ says the voice in his head, _you remember the year, the day, the time, the way England’s eyes looked and what colour his tie was and how his hands felt on your body after so many years of distance of both your own making, after England started wearing those gloves and when even the brush of his hand against yours was a treasure to hoard.)_

Or when. On his part, at least.

( _It started early, he thinks. So early that it’s hard to distinguish when the warm fluttery feeling in his belly every time England lets him clamber into his bed and curl into his side at night with a fond smile had turned into something like the twisted, throbbing need that woke him most mornings even after England had left his shores, tangled up in his sheets and thinking of green, green eyes and sandy blond hair and of having long clever fingers that could wield a needle as well as a sword wrapped around his cock and touching him. Anywhere. Everywhere. Wherever England wanted. America thinks of - of having England over him, pressing him into the mattress, his lips on America’s and his hands on America’s cock - and makes a fine mess of his sheets.)_

Or how exactly, they’d tumbled into bed together that first time. 

_(England had been drunk and so had America, not much - just a warm hazy buzz that hummed through his veins and made the street lamps overhead smear into little golden blurs of light as they made their way back to the hotel after leaving most of the others back at the bar. And maybe he’s a bit drunker than he thought, because the pavement seemed to be rising and then falling and swaying about and America had stumbled over his feet and then tripped over England’s and knocked them both against the railing. England had said something -something mean, probably, even though the alcohol seemed to have stolen most of his usual crisp derision but America hadn't heard a word because he was pressing England up flush against the side of a… a bridge, he thinks, their meeting had been in France, right? Whole lotta bridges there. And England’s face had been real close to his, so close that all America could see was green eyes and dark lashes and the flush high on his cheeks and he didn't know who moved - still doesn't know, in fact, if it had been America himself or England that had swayed forward to close that last inch. The rest of the walk back had been a mess of roaming hands and clumsy kisses that had barely halted even when they’d staggered through the hotel lobby and then there’s a bit of a skip in his memories because the next thing he knew, England was shoving him onto a bed and kissing him and kissing him some more, until America was moaning into his mouth and rutting up to meet him, England’s body a warm, solid weight pressing down on him as he gasped and shuddered and came messily in his pants. England had laughed at him then, laughed and kissed him and worked a hand between them to touch himself and then America had watched greedily as his face twisted in pleasure when he climaxed too.)_

  
  


And then just didn't stop.

_(An empty conference room in Zurich, those hot springs in Hokkaido, the guest room at Canada’s place and then that time after that G7 meeting in Italy, after he and England had had that row over trade tariffs and he’d cornered America outside his hotel room, grabbed him by the tie and hauled him in for a stinging kiss and then fucked him into the mattress and then fucked him again through his blissed-out stupor, his voice a throaty purr in America’s ear - “Fuck, if I’d known this was all it took to shut you up, love, I would have bent you over a desk ages ago -”)_

  
  
  


England’s always rough. He leaves ~~love~~ _(not love, never love, not from him)_ bites on America’s throat, his collarbone, stinging little reminders that America finds himself tracing idly, shifting his shoulders just to feel the tantalising scrape of his shirt against the scratches on his back.

And so America retaliates. For appearance’s sake only, of course. Not to satisfy his own obsessive need to stake a claim. Of course. _(If England ever found out, he’d probably flay America alive and nevermind that America’s so pathetic he might even_ enjoy _it, there’s still the risk that England might decide their little trysts are more trouble than they're worth.)_ He can't help it though, can't help himself from leaving bruises inked on creamy thighs, guilty fingerprints along slim hips where he presses down just a _bit_ too hard the times that he makes England buck up into his mouth. 

  
  


Longing, desire, ~~love~~. It’s a tangled knot that sits in America’s chest, digging barbed wire into his heart and making his throat close up every time England fires off a causal volley, words meant to sting, albeit superficially. England’s not trying to hurt him, he knows; they’ve left true hostility behind somewhere in history, in the roar of gunfire and falling bombs as London burned. _(“Not even a ‘thank you’, old man?” “Took you long enough, brat.”)_

Doesn't mean that America’s gonna sit and roll over every time he’s used as target practice for English ire. He gives back as good as he gets - makes fun of England’s cooking _(he misses it, sometimes)_ , his eyebrows _(cute, even - no,_ especially _when he frowned)_ , his old man clothes _(the oversized knit sweaters were_ adorable _and America wants to see how England would look in one of his)_ and everything in between. 

Or almost everything. Some things, like the way England liked to weave his own Christmas wreaths, the way he always made sure his bird feeder was full, his soft, tuneless humming when he drank just enough to mellow out and lean all affectionate-like into America’s side, were sacred. Little bits and pieces of Arthur Kirkland that America squirrels away carefully in his heart. (He’s not allowed to call England that, which hurts. Just a little. A lot.)

  
  


An ally? Definitely. 

A friend? Maybe. 

Not a lover though. _(They’re a dirty little secret that_ everyone _knows, but no one tries to hit on England when he’s around so there's that.)_

It’s obvious in the way they fuck. England prefers him on his hands and knees, never meets his eyes in the few times that America ends up on his back. And even then, his kisses are harsh; he bites at America’s lips and then flicks his tongue over the hurt, steals the moans straight from America’s mouth every time he twists his hips and thrusts with unerring precision, setting America’s every nerve alight with the exquisite scrape of his cock inside him. 

  
  


It’s always good. More than good, which is why America tries sometimes to convince himself that’s why he keeps coming back for more. 

_(“More, more, always_ more _with you,” England says, almost bored. His smile gives him away though, curling sharp and wicked as he crooks his fingers and makes America keen and buck. “I wonder though,” slow and insidious, his head lowering until he’s almost breathing the words onto America’s leaking cock. “How much can you take?” And after that, it’s just searing wet heat and teasing touches both inside and out and the agonisingly pleasurable scrape of sharp teeth over sensitive flesh and America thinks he might be screaming, screaming as he writhes and pulls desperately at the fraying tie that binds his wrists to the headboard.)_

  
  


It’s fine. Everything’s fine. The trouble is when America forgets.

  
  


He's allowed to touch England, yes - or well, some time after the how many-th war that he’s had to bail the old man (and half of Europe with him) out of, America had just started slinging an arm across England’s shoulders every time he saw him, poking at his cheeks and stealing his pens and chattering on and on about nothing in particular, just so England would hiss and smack him and _look_ at him, really look, bright green eyes flashing with annoyance and pale skin flushed - also with annoyance, as much as America liked to pretend otherwise. 

But right now he’s talking to France, or well, fending off France while Canada puts his face in his palms with an air of _I don't know them, please don't make me deal with it_ so he doesn't have to watch them struggle and swear and almost knock all the empty glasses off their slightly sticky table. 

That’s smart. America’s gonna do that. He's not gonna get in the middle of this one because it always gets messy when France is involved and anyway America’s already sitting at the other side of the pub and not even facing them; he’s just watching all this play out in the reflection of the room in the window while pretending to pay attention to what’s going on at _his_ table.

  
  


Yep. Not gonna do anything. At all.

  
  


… America lasts all the way until France’s gotten England’s shirt mostly unbuttoned and then he pretends that it’s the bartender’s increasingly distressed looks at their section of the pub that makes him wander off half-way through a conversation with Australia and Denmark, who let him go with only a few catcalls and a _yeah, go get your man!_ that make him feel both warm and sorta twisty on the inside at the same time. But he swallows the instinctive protest; just grins at them and waves and doesn't say anything about how England isn't his, just weaves through tables and chairs, and gets there just in time to stop England from breaking France’s nose. 

“Aw, c’mon, babe,” he says, draping himself over England’s back and trapping his flailing arms at his sides - and only realises what he’s said when England goes stiff and Canada jerks his head up to stare. Uh. Shit. 

He's saved from having to make some stupid joke or excuse that’d probably get him punched by France practically throwing himself half-naked into England’s lap with a cooed _“oh, mon amie, did you finally get around to telling - ah! Not the hair-!”_

  
  


After he and Canada finally convince England to release France, they get told in no uncertain terms by the staff that they’re gonna have to leave if this keeps happening, which is… pretty fair, America thinks. Germany had already had to haul Prussia out by the scruff of his neck earlier; that intimidating glower of his mostly ruined by Italy bobbing along happily behind him. The owner of their regular pub in Brussels usually had a higher tolerance for their shenanigans, but that place was closed for repairs this time, so they had just crashed at the next place closest to their hotel. (Which was probably blacklisting them all right now, but ah well.)

Anyways, America’s already pretty tipsy and also pretty sure England’s consumed enough hard liquor that he's gonna turn into a horny drunk soonish - and yep, there was his hand worming into America’s back pocket and his face smushed into the crook of America’s neck, his hot breaths feathering over the patch of bare skin that America’s loosened shirt collar has exposed and his soft lips parting for his tongue to flicker out and-

Definitely time to leave. 

America has to keep prying cold, greedy hands out of his jeans all the way back to the hotel, but his grip slips a little when they get in the elevator and England moves _fast_ for someone so sloshed; he shoves America up against the wall and then shoves his tongue into America’s mouth and it’s all very nice even though the railing is sorta digging into America’s back. 

Well, it's nice all the way up until they accidentally scandalise a group of tourists when the doors slide open on their floor - someone yells _get a room_ and there's a lot of cussing in a language that America doesn't know, but England just laughs and drags America out by their linked hands and to one of their rooms - his room, America thinks fuzzily, because England kisses him up against the door, right there in the hallway, as he hunts around America’s pockets for the keycard and then the door’s swinging open behind him and they’re stumbling in, clumsy and giggling. Or at least, America’s giggling (no real reason or nothin’, just that he feels sorta giddy) all the way up until England pushes him against the other side of the door and kisses all that away; until America's all hot and needy, panting as England nibbles at his ear and then does something to his neck that makes his knees go weak. 

_Get on the bed,_ he says against America’s lips, growls, almost - and wow, England was hot when he was being all commanding and stuff and also when did he get America’s shirt off? 

But America doesn't get to ask, because the room’s spinning as he tips over and lands on something soft, and England’s going for his belt now, straddling his thighs and swearing when it gets stuck as America props himself up on his elbows to help and also to make fun of him because _how the hell did you even get it tangled up in my belt loops_ but England just hisses a little like an offended cat and then kisses him quiet. 

They do manage to get naked, finally. 

England’s on top of him and it’s good because it always is and America could probably come like this, England pressed flush to him and mouthing hotly at his collarbone, his knee on the bed between America’s thighs, rubbing in just the right way to make him moan. 

Except that England’s getting up, kneeling on the bed by his hip and it’s _unfair_ how pretty he looks like this, flushed all over with a hand stroking and pulling at his own cock. He laughs when America whines at him (he's a happy drunk tonight, it seemed), laughs and tugs at America’s hip, coaxes him onto his hands and knees - and that’s good too. Totally good. _Lube_ , America says, stuttering a little as he tries to reach for the bedside table, but is stopped by a hand on his hip. 

_Later,_ England says into his skin and - then lower, lower - _I want to try something._

And yeah, America’s game for just about anything if England’s the one doing it to him, so he obeys the silent order to spread his legs, doesn't even question it; just lets those hands arrange him how England wants. 

And _how England wants_ seems to be him trembling with his cheek pressed into the mattress as his asscheeks are spread and - oh, America understands now, what England’s gonna do to him - right before he feels warm breath over his hole and then something _warm_ and _wet_ brushing over him, pressing tentatively and oh. 

_“_ Oh god,” America says aloud, faintly, shuddering as England noses his way deeper and -

More of those hot, wet touches, on him- _inside_ him and America’s moaning into the mattress, barely aware of how loud he’s getting, the way his hips keep stuttering, trying to shift back, to get just a _bit_ more- _England, please, I’m, I need --a-ah!_

England listens for once and America almost screams, almost sobs at the _gorgeous_ pleasure as a calloused hand wraps around his cock and strokes. It’s quick and messy; England twisting his wrist so he can rub his thumb over the cockhead, over the sensitive slit. He's still lapping at America’s hole, tracing over the twitching pucker with his tongue - drawing away, then pressing closer in some pattern or rhythm that makes sense only to him, and is driving America absolutely _mad_. 

_Louder,_ England’s saying, low and insistent as the fingers around America’s cock tighten and America forgets how words work, can only gasp and writhe and push his hips into England’s fist. _I want the whole floor to hear you, hear how good you're having it -_

And America _does_ scream this time, as England fucking _buries his face_ between his cheeks and licks at him like a starving man, shoves his tongue inside him even as the movement of his hand on America’s cock becomes frenzied, rough and grasping, and it’s so damned good that it almost hurts - that tight, aching coil of heat in the pit of his belly that spreads to the rest of him, searing hot and America can't breathe, can't think. 

  
  


He climaxes with a stuttered cry of _A-Arthur!_ and doesn't realise his mistake until later.

  
  


(But England doesn't leave that night, not like he usually does - rolling out of the bed after reducing America to a limp, sated mess, before their spend has even dried. He stays instead; curls into America’s side and brushes off the mumbled question when America finally remembers that he hasn't come yet - until the sticky whiteness smeared on America’s hand when he reaches down says otherwise.)

(He’s gone in the morning when America wakes up, but that’s all right.)

(It really isn't, but America’s good at lying to himself by now.)

(He’s had a lot of practice.)

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my WIP folder for ages and finally decided to write the last bit in one sitting instead of y’know. Studying. For the rest of my tests this week. 
> 
> Next chapter will be these two fools finally getting their act together! I promised a happy ending in the tags and I will deliver! Soon! Maybe! Hopefully!


End file.
